ISSN 1758-6488
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Men in Love Fiction |
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“This is my husband. This is Ron,” says Eliza, standing in front of us, dressed in her office best, holding shoes by their slings in one hand and Ron with the other. He’s got his suit jacket over his shoulder with one finger, his go-to-court blue gabardine suit pants rolled up to his calves and splashed splotchy wet.
“Nice to meet you.” he says, putting down a hand I scramble up to shake. I’m towheaded with sun, skin reddened towards magenta, peeling mini-flakes from my nose, coated with sand like a sugar donut with sugar. I’m enjoying this. So is he.
“Where are your shoes?” I say.
“Left them in the motel,” he says. “Rooms open on the beach.”
“You burn your feet,” says Rose into the sand.
“This is Rose, Eliza,” I say. “Rose, This is Eliza, my wife.”
“Not much of a burn,” Ron says. “And we wanted to hold hands.”
“I hold your hand,” says Rose, sitting up to shake hands with Ron, leaving her bra behind. “I see you on TV ads for politics. It is not usual you are Black to be successful, congratulations, but my name is not Rose. My name is (unintelligible). You are his wife?”
“Hi,” says Eliza, and grins, reaching down to shake hands. Silence.
“Do I put on my thing?” says Rose.
“No,” I say, “We’re among friends.” Silence.
“Everybody thinks Blacks are not true American only African hyphens, but I think you are more true than any. Americans do hyphens when they are scared they have no home but here. Because America scares Americans worst my husband says. But forget my husband, he don’t have sex with me. But he says with Blacks it is worser. You are forever Black, not able to rest one minute from fate. Like living your whole life Irish the day of Saint Pats. He says Irish in America have saints because they have nothing.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Ron says. “But we have jazz.”
“Poo, Jazz is so American it is world wide everywhere like English. America makes Jazz English, language everybody speaks because nobody cares how bad you can do it.”
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